Plan Z
by K9Lasko
Summary: Doom; it's closing in on them.


**Title: **"Plan Z"  
**Rating: **FR15 / T  
**Genre: **Angst, drama, short story  
**Characters: **McGee, DiNozzo  
**Warning: **Character death? Ambiguous ending.  
**NFA Challenge**: Fish's First/Last Day Challenge

**Author's Note: **I wrote this in a few hours. Not beta read, as usual, so pardon any mistakes. I wanted to write an "old-fashioned" ultra-fan-fiction-y whump piece. This is what happened. Major hurt DiNozzo, and an atomic angst bomb. I'm still looking desperately for one shred of plot. By the way, I adore _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid._

This story takes place a few years in the future.

* * *

**Plan Z**

"_Now that I see,  
Now that I finally found the one thing I denied,  
it's now I know- do I stay or do I go?  
And it is finally I decide,  
that I'll be leaving  
in the fairest of the seasons."  
_- Nico

Hiding.

That's plan "D," because they've already burned through plans "A" to "C." It's not ideal, but they're surrounded on three out of four sides and the fourth side just an exposed brick wall. It's a tactical nightmare, somebody's fault probably, but they don't know whose. It's a crisis of miscommunication, missed signals, bad luck, and unfortunate circumstances.

The radio purrs on low.

"We should shut it off," McGee says with barely enough breath to make the suggestion intelligible. The static is a beacon to those who hunt them. They are like treed foxes, waiting in tangled branches while the hounds bay, circling 'round and 'round.

DiNozzo grimaces - mere discomfort doesn't adequately describe the agony that blooms from a gut full of buckshot - but he's insistent. "No."

"Tony-"

"Shut up," he spits out. "This thing is contact. We need contact."

"They can hear it," McGee argues. It's logical. Contact seems useless at this point, especially when it only serves as an expedient path to the double-homicide of federal agents.

"They can also hear us wheezing like participants at a fat camp," DiNozzo counters.

"Correction: you're wheezing," McGee says. "I'm breathing deeply."

For a bit, they smile stupidly at each other because they're both right and they're both wrong, and it really doesn't matter right now, not with Death knocking on the front door.

They've grown to like each other the way peanut butter likes jelly. And while they could imagine several better ways to enjoy each other's company - a movie, a couple of beers during a football game, an hour spent bullshitting at their desks - they have to figure that this will do, in this desperate pinch.

They respect that their friendship runs deep. Deep like the Pacific Ocean or the Grand Canyon or some hole that sinks all the way down towards the center of the earth. That kind of deep.

Crazy deep.

So DiNozzo says, "I've been doing this job for a while. I know the in's and the out's, and I know you do, too. But the radio- Maybe-" He doesn't finish.

McGee is looking at DiNozzo's abdomen, the white shirt forcefully rearranged. It's all bloody and oozing, a messy tableau inspired by the efforts of a shotgun at relatively close range. Tony has his left hand, red and shaking, hovering over the ruins. Touching it hurts, looking at it seems to hurt even more. For McGee, it's "hurt by association."

"Okay." It's the only thing McGee can conjure up to say out loud at this moment.

How DiNozzo is still functioning is anybody's guess. He's like some wounded animal, stubbornly clutching onto life because that's what he's made to do and what's expected of him. Because there's stuff left to do, people left to shepherd and protect - people like McGee, though he knows well that McGee doesn't really need him in that way anymore.

The years may have passed quickly, and also with the occasional trauma, but they've produced a McGee who is strong and brave, always brilliant and resourceful. Kind-hearted, gentle, and fair. Capable. _More_ than just capable.

"Tim," Tony says. He suddenly needs this intimacy, this friendly closeness born from hours shared working this job. "I know I chose to check out of NCIS early, but I've still got an okay pension waiting for me. Tomorrow- Tomorrow was gonna be the first day of the rest of my life."

"Still will be." McGee sets his jaw, because this right here - this wall, this hour, this brief moment of desperation - isn't how the story ends.

"I've got shit luck, Timmy. Let's admit it." DiNozzo grunts a bit because it seriously feels like the pebbles of lead swimming around his gut are on the move. He stares at an "exit" sign glowing red above a door. It swims in and out of focus as he pants, breaths coming and going far too quickly. The excess oxygen makes him light headed. He wants to be brave right now, but he can't get past the all-consuming fear. "I was done with this job, but now I'm just plain done."

McGee has heard enough. "Stop it." It's a hissing whisper, tinged with a bit of frustration. He knows that for a man in acute pain, Tony's getting along fairly well, but this isn't quitting time. Not yet. "I have a Plan 'E' in the works."

DiNozzo wants nothing more than the burning in his belly to stop. McGee's talk of Plan E inspires little hope. "There's no such thing."

"I won't give up. Not until we get to Plan 'Z,' and even then, I'll just cycle through the alphabet again," McGee speaks quickly. He's on his knees now, facing DiNozzo and speaking with great enthusiasm directly into his face.

But Tony still stares at the sign that reads "exit." So close.

There are voices nearby. Loud and booming.

Doom; it's closing in on them.

"Are you listening?" McGee tries to catch Tony's gaze. Those muddy-green eyes seem so far away. Frustrated, McGee shifts himself, forcing his face into DiNozzo's direct line of vision. McGee is mustering a whole sea of raw determination. He could go all day, locked in this state. As long as he doesn't have to look at Tony's belly again. That makes him want to gag.

While McGee's face looms, Tony tries to lock it all away. "Yeah," he mumbles while forgetting what he's "yeah-ing" at.

"Listen. We don't have time for an existential crisis. I'll carry you out of here," McGee then insists. He's already arranging himself carefully, trying to figure out the logistics of Plan E while already brainstorming Plans F, G, and H. He isn't kidding about going and going until Plan Z. Not when Tony is heading towards a serious case of sepsis. Not when he's mere hours away from many, _many_ glorious years that are waiting to be spent harassing younger women, feeding pigeons and driving with his blinker on.

McGee feels like this task is insurmountable. Tony is built like a brick crap-house, which means he's also _heavy_, and years spent eating high-caloric takeout and donuts and candy bars and an odd assortment of other junk have done Tony no favors in the excess baggage department. McGee might as well be attempting to move a mountain.

DiNozzo is of little help himself, through no fault of his own. He had managed to drag himself into this corner, stumbling and dizzy. Removing himself, he figured, would be the job of a coroner.

There's a thin window of time, during which dying in a hail of gunfire might be entirely likely. McGee grasps DiNozzo's trembling body and _pulls_. What he can't carry, he can always drag. "Sorry Tony," he whispers while the radio static keeps humming at his hip. "But Abby has a whole retirement party planned for you tonight, and you kind of need to be alive for it. Don't tell her I told you."

Tony only succeeds in looking confused as he finds his body sliding along the tile floor, a gory process lubricated by his own blood. "Ouch," he grunts at McGee.

"It's supposed to be a surprise," he goes on. "She's been planning it for weeks."

DiNozzo manages, by some sheer force of will, to pull himself halfway to his knees.

Behind them somebody yells, "Hey you!"

McGee slams Tony down, flat on the floor. He holds up his service weapon and with deadly lefty aim, double-taps the encroaching gunman in the chest. He swallows the emotion that threatens to curl up his throat while he looks down at Tony. He's surprised to find that Tony is smiling up at him, thin and pained as it is.

"Nice," DiNozzo croaks. "Plan?"

McGee knows how to translate whatever Tony's said, and while he struggles to continue their slow advancement towards the door, he answers, "Plan F, Tony."

They don't make it. McGee's gunshot is the great equalizer. Boots stomp closer and closer, and a bullet shatters the tile mere inches in front of them. Another bullet wings McGee. His left arm dangles uselessly, and he almost drops the heavy Sig before his head becomes reattached to his body from wherever it had threatened to float off to. On raw reflex, McGee shoves Tony behind a wall.

"This is it!" DiNozzo gasps as he pulls himself somewhat upright. Dazed eyes watch McGee clutch at a now bleeding bicep. "You can't shoot. Should we just fast forward to Plan Z now?"

McGee wheezes out a sad little laugh as he comes to grips with the new situation. He peeks around the wall to find a man checking on his dead accomplice. Biting his lip, McGee decides to grip the gun in his right hand and let loose a single shot into the hallway. The aim is wild, but at least it manages to clear the hall.

"You seem very motivated to finally become team leader," DiNozzo whispers, humor in a failing voice.

"Maybe I am," McGee grinds out.

"Your arm-"

"-is fine," McGee interrupts. "Look at yourself."

"I can still shoot," Tony offers.

"You're shaking. Now be quiet." McGee peeks around the corner again and takes another shot. Again it's wild, but again it causes their pursuers some pause.

Something cramps deep in his intestines, and DiNozzo slides jerkily to the floor, ending in a half-propped-up fetal position on the floor. He gags. He's getting too old for the whole mortally wounded bit; it's why he put in for retirement. He's been hoping to receive some woodworking tutelage from Gibbs, although these days Gibbs spends more time out on the water than down in the basement. But still. Looks like that won't be happening, now with his guts busy marinating in gastric juices and all.

It's a regular Tuesday afternoon. He knows that outside, the sun is shining. Birds are chirping. The snow has all melted. This morning, when he pried himself from bed, he was _happy_. He's been checking out his finances; there's a little theatre in town that has a "for sale by owner" sign on it. Today's the day he was supposed to close one book and open another.

Learn to work wood.

Buy an art house cinema.

Then what?

Sweat runs down Tony's face and into his eyes where it burns. His eyes track upwards. McGee is keeping vigil. Loyal. Always. His face is locked in a perpetual expression of worry.

DiNozzo shuts his eyes. He feels weird; he doesn't _like_ this feeling.

"Tony," McGee warns. "Stay awake."

Seconds trundle by. Minutes. Hours maybe, although that's unlikely. They're still stuck. McGee's still bleeding and developing a stomach ulcer. DiNozzo's still dying or wishing he were already dead. The radio is not cooperating. Useless. McGee has already gone through a whole clip, and now he's working on another. Tony has taken to moaning. Low and quiet and miserable. When it suddenly stops, McGee's heart freezes, but when he hunkers down over Tony's shivering form, he sees two glassy eyes watching him.

"You know what this is like?" DiNozzo asks in a whisper.

Tim doesn't know. He's thinking that he needs to start dragging him again. He decides to humor his friend, "No, what?"

"Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Last scene. Bolivia."

"I've seen that movie," McGee frowns. "This won't end like that."

"I know. I can just lie here. Nothing else." Tony's breathing has become arrhythmic and shallow.

He doesn't know what prompts him, but McGee puts a hand on Tony's head. The pad of his thumb rests near the temple. He can feel the fever tremors come and go. The thumb begins to stroke. McGee feels somewhat stupid and awkward, but he can't stop doing it. The contact doesn't stop the febrile shakes, but the part of DiNozzo still aware of what's happening seems to calm down a bit. "'Goodbye, Bolivia. Hello to Australia.'" McGee adds, knowing Tony will pick up on it.

And he does. He smiles. The reaction is slow.

There are voices approaching, followed by a stuttering skirmish of gunfire.

"Stay awake," McGee finds himself begging.

"Hmm," DiNozzo breathes.

"Do you want to know what Plan Z is?" he then asks, baiting interest.

Tony blinks and attempts to appear somewhat aware.

McGee takes that as a 'yes.' "Pray, Tony. Pray really, really hard."

Someone steps out from around the wall, gun drawn and pointed down at the both of them. McGee wheels around, his own weapon held in his right hand, shaky and unable to be supported by the dead weight that is his left arm. But he recognizes this person, and she just might be the sweetest thing he's seen all year. Blond hair and bright brown eyes. NCIS emblazoned on her jacket. McGee lets his arm drop into his lap. "Bishop," he exhales. "Thank god you're here."

He looks at Tony, and he reaches to tap at his cheek. "Hey Ton-" Something stops him.

"Is he-?" the woman begins to ask

McGee sinks into an awkward sit, feet splayed under him. "You still praying, Tony? Keep it up. Please don't stop."

"Oh Jesus," another agent swears, somewhere behind them, or next to them, or in front of them.

It doesn't matter.

Right now, it really doesn't.


End file.
